


growing wings

by sassymajesty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clexaweek 21 Day 4, Clexaweek21, F/F, Mile High Club, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, and me pretending to know how airplanes work, at work, i cannot stress how little plot this has, it's just lexa getting railed in the cockpit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29840094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassymajesty/pseuds/sassymajesty
Summary: Forgetting every protocol she’s sworn to uphold and any sense of decorum a pilot is supposed to have, Lexa closes the distance between them in one short step, envelops her wife in a hug. Clarke wraps her arms around her shoulder, fingers finding their way in between the curls to cup the back of her head — and just like that, Lexa is home.“What are you doing here?” Lexa asks once her heart has adjusted to the surprise, its rhythm back to normal. Her voice is muffled against a shoulder, but she’s not ready to pull away.Clarke presses a kiss to the curve of her neck, and Lexa can feel her lips spreading into a smile as she whispers, “Happy anniversary, babe.”
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 25
Kudos: 338
Collections: Clexaweek2021





	growing wings

**Author's Note:**

> It all started with [this gorgeous manip](https://www.instagram.com/p/CKtZh5GLXkA/) by debnamcareyfr on Instagram, and things escalated (fairly quickly) from there! You can find the moodboard for this story [here](https://sassymajesty.tumblr.com/post/644727594746593280).

The engines roar to life and Lexa turns her head to the side, looking out the flight deck side window to check the right side of the plane. It's a habit by now, to double — more often than not, triple — check everything.

It gives her a moment to compose herself, hide the smile that still tugs at her lips after years as a pilot. Anya gives her enough grief as it is.

They go through the  _ before takeoff _ checklist with the same precision as a commander and their lieutenant prepare for war. They’ll go through it once again before they take off, with a few other checklists in between, updating the tower and listening for feedback.

Making sure flight controls are free and correct, fuel gauges read as they should and seat belts are fastened for the third time verges on boring for most pilots, a task that must be completed before the real fun begins. But for Lexa, being cautious and ready for anything the skies throw at them is what makes this all the more exciting.

She was born for this. She’s known that since the first time she got inside a cardboard box with markers and her imagination — the circles drawn inside became intricate controls, the flaps on the sides became wings, and the sky was never the limit for her.

The magic didn’t stop then. It’s followed her every step of the way.

After going through the checklist one last time and getting clearance from the tower, Anya flips a few switches overhead before calling out, “Eighty knots.”

“Checked.”

“V1. Rotate.”

“Gear up.”

“LNAV.”

“Command bravo,” Lexa says as she pushes the slider to engage autopilot, before rotating a knot to increase the speed for flap retraction, “Bug up.”

Anya raises the landing gear and retracts the flaps to clean up the airplane, reaching blind for the controls as her eyes sweep the instrument panel for any red lights or signs that they missed something. Listening for the very particular sound the flaps make when they’re being cleaned — a sound that used to make her second guess her walk around outside the plane, a sound that now comforts her —, Lexa pulls up the weather report on her own tablet, before setting it in between both of their seats.

Touch screens are fun for the crew meeting before the flight as they’re mapping out their route and can be useful for easy access to information, but she’s glad for the manual gears with tactile feel to them. She doesn’t know any pilot who'd rather board a Tesla version of an airplane than cozy up to a cockpit with hundreds of switches, knobs and gauges that take up all their attention.

“ _ Cleared to cross runway two seven. _ ” The bodiless voice from the tower comes through her headphones, and Lexa locks her shoulders, ready to take command and taxi across runway twenty seven.

As much as setting up the cockpit brings her memories of colorful scribbles and childhood glee, is the takeoff that sets her heart on fire. Lexa wraps her hands around the control wheel, preparing herself to guide them through takeoff.

“ _ Fly heading two three zero. Runway two seven left. Cleared for takeoff. _ ”

And just like that, the same magic that transformed a cardboard box into an airplane now makes them airborne.

“ _ Climb and maintain one two thousand. _ ”

With her back pressed against her seat, Lexa does as she’s instructed, heading to the sky above them. In the almost four and a half minutes that take for them to reach twelve thousand feet, Lexa basks in the late summer night sky, the stars pouring in through the low-level clouds that hang above Detroit. 

It doesn’t last for long, the private moment she was having with the infinity beyond her. 

As soon as they reach their first altitude hallmark, Anya stops taking notes on their journey so far and starts the  _ after takeoff _ checklist. Lexa turns knobs and flicks switches, reading altitude gauges and their new position out loud to her captain. 

“Release cabin crew?” Anya asks, more as a formality than anything else. She lets go of the throttles she had taken a hold of during takeoff, in case of an emergency, and reaches forward to stretch. In the months they’ve been flying together, each other’s telltale signs of exhaustion have become clear — Anya’s is muscle ache combined with a stronger grip on everything to make up for it.

“Happy to release the cabin crew,” Lexa confirms before reaching for the speaker and giving the go ahead for the crew. As the pilot flying, it’s her duty to check in with everyone else in the flight, it’s her responsibility to fly them home safe and sound.

Switching channels to the PA system, Lexa addresses the entire plane — a quick announcement to say that it should be smooth sailing from here on out and they’re scheduled to land on Boston Logan International airport at 11:11pm.

Which will give Lexa forty nine minutes to go through the  _ after landing _ checklist and all the protocols she’s supposed to, change into something that isn’t issued by the airline, get a taxi home and celebrate her first wedding anniversary.

She’ll never make it.

It won’t be the first time they spend an important date away from each other. Between Lexa’s route taking her all across the country a few times a week and Clarke trying to make it to the end of each week in one piece as a trauma resident, birthdays are celebrated weeks after and Christmas gifts are exchanged somewhere around Thanksgiving. But being used to it doesn’t mean it tastes any less bitter.

“ _ Contact Boston Center, one two four decimal six two. _ ” The Detroit tower gives them the new frequency to change to, with a  _ ciao _ attached to the end of the message, and it brings Lexa back to the task at hand. 

They’re still not at full altitude, although getting there quickly now, and all Lexa really has to do is check for anything out of the ordinary as Anya checks in with the new controller. Each gauge reads beautifully, the temperature is looking good and the autopilot seems to be more than capable of flying them home, save for any change in weather.

As Anya stretches, her hands reaching back above the seat and her feet going as far as their foot rests will allow her, Lexa allows herself to relax a little. She goes through her own stretching routine — she knows herself as a pilot enough to know that the muscles on her neck and upper back tangle and strain with each takeoff.

When Anya’s stretching turns into a yawn that goes on for long enough to make her eyes water, Lexa politely pretends she doesn’t see it as she checks the weather report for the fifteenth time, “Go to sleep. Captain. We have a good hour before you’re needed on deck.”

“I am not tired, First Officer,” Anya shoots back, her closed eyes and crossed arms as she tilts her head until it’s resting on the pilot seat not helping her make a strong case, despite the formalities, “And in case you’ve forgotten your training, it’s mandatory to have two pilots on deck at all times.”

“You’ll be a big help in an emergency, I’m sure,” Lexa teases, the years working side by side with Anya giving her liberties that neither women allow with many people, “You’ve been on your feet for what, twenty seven hours now? You could use some sleep.”

Anya doesn’t answer right away. Her breathing starts to slow and even out, and just when her head is about to droop to her shoulder, she opens her eyes. “I can sleep in my own room, when I get us home,” Anya unfastens her seatbelt and gets up, swiping her jacket from the back of her seat and shrugging it on, “I’ll go get some coffee. Then I’m going to—“ the rest of the sentence gets swallowed up by a brand new yawn that carries her out of the cockpit.

With a glance at her watch, Lexa makes a mental note to send someone up to the sleeping quarters a little before they need to land to wake Anya up. She goes over a few tasks that Anya is supposed to keep an eye on, but it’s all busy work. Fuel is fine, weather looks as predicted, there’s not even much room for route errors in a flight as short as this one.

There’s a knock on the door, and Aden pops his head in without waiting for an answer, “Ma’am?” The flight attendant asks in his customary overly polite tone. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Her lips purse as annoyance washes over her, and she takes a moment to hide it before turning back to face Aden. People wanting to visit the cockpit and meet the pilot is not unheard of, but they usually have the decency to let the crew know before the plane takes off, to accommodate the request around their busy times. She wasn’t told anything.

“Did they clear it with the captain beforehand?” She asks, in a not so subtle reminder of protocols as she unbuckles herself and stands in the small space in between her seat and the door, brushing non existent crinkles from her uniform.

Her expression is composed and polite for the passenger’s sake, but she shoots Aden a reproaching look when he barely tries to contain his smile, “No, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

It’s probably just a child whose parents got through take off with promises of meeting the pilot, and she readies herself to be pleasant, but curt and direct. She’s tired, she wants to go home, and she doesn’t have much energy to spend on tiny children trying to grab anything on the instrument panel. Still, she waves a hand at Aden, “Send them in.”

With a nod, Aden steps out of the cabin, and Lexa folds her hands behind her, takes the few seconds before her unexpected guest comes in to take another cursory look at the main gauges and screens.

“Hello, Captain.”

“I’m actually the First—” Lexa starts correcting them on the rank she holds in this particular flight, more for the sake of trivia than anything else. But the face that greets her when she turns around makes her rehearsed lines fall away, a smile taking their place. “Clarke?”

Forgetting every protocol she’s sworn to uphold and any sense of decorum a pilot is supposed to have, Lexa closes the distance between them in one short step, envelops her wife in a hug. Clarke wraps her arms around her shoulder, fingers finding their way in between the curls to cup the back of her head — and just like that, Lexa is  _ home _ .

“What are you doing here?” Lexa asks once her heart has adjusted to the surprise, its rhythm back to normal. Her voice is muffled against a shoulder, but she’s not ready to pull away.

Clarke presses a kiss to the curve of her neck, and Lexa can feel her lips spreading into a smile as she whispers, “Happy anniversary, babe.”

They’ve watched enough videos of loved ones surprising pilots on their flights for them both to agree that while it’s sweet and makes for heartwarming moments, it’s also very cheesy and bordering on unprofessional. It ruins the pilot’s focus for the rest of the trip and it’s often nothing that couldn’t have waited until they both got home.

But holding her wife in her arms at thirty seven thousand feet makes her understand the thrill of it all.

When Clarke leans back without breaking the hug, just enough so they can see each other, Lexa doesn’t think twice before capturing her lips in a kiss. It’s been painfully long since they last saw each other, an extra shift stealing Clarke away before this flight. Each second they’ve spent away shows in the way they cling to one another.

And it’s their  _ anniversary _ — she should get a pass for that reason alone. 

The kiss is soft and almost chaste, at first. It’s just lips brushing against lips, pressed together with the slightest touch as if it’s their first kiss ever. And Lexa is happy if that’s all it amounts to. 

But then Clarke catches her bottom lip in between hers, her favorite way to tease, to silently ask permission to deepen the kiss. Lexa opens her lips, welcomes her gladly. She allows herself to be in the moment, to kiss her wife —  _ god _ , she’ll never get tired of calling Clarke that — as if they’re the only two people left in the world. She’s confident the plane won’t crash during the length of one single kiss.

They break the kiss when their lungs can’t do their proper job anymore, and the breaths they both take are almost the same match as their smiles.

Clarke doesn’t step back. She doesn’t tell Lexa that she’ll go back to her seat, that they can stop for some coffee on the drive home so they can have enough energy to celebrate their anniversary as they meant to. She doesn’t give her a smile that tells Lexa what’s in store for her when they get home and to a horizontal surface.

Instead, Clarke lets her hands fall from Lexa’s neck to her hips, tracing curves hidden by white button down, and guides her backwards until they’re both tucked in between the pilot’s seat and the maintenance panel, her back pressed against the document stowage.

Lexa could have tried to convince herself that Clarke just wants a second kiss before she goes back to her seat, something as tame as the first one. But she knows her wife well enough, and the devious look Clarke gives her as she slides a leg in between her thighs to press her further against the wall makes her intentions as clear as she skies they’re soaring across.

It’s a line that she hasn’t crossed when she was a twenty something, still shadowing flights rather than piloting them, willing to risk her non-existent reputation to chase the  _ oh _ so popular thrill. 

It’s a line she doesn’t plan on crossing now, as a licensed pilot in charge of flying hundreds of lives to their destination safely.

Her hands reach Clarke’s as fingers tuck into the waistband of her navy dress pants, stopping them just short of undoing a button, “Clarke.” Her voice doesn’t hold the stern reproach Lexa was hoping for, and if she tilts her head to the side to give Clarke more space to kiss her neck, she doesn’t linger on what it means for her resolve, “What are you doing?”

Clarke licks a path up her jaw and towards her ear, “Do you have any working theories, ma’am?” Clarke takes her earlobe in between her teeth, her tongue tracing it as her thigh presses harder against her core, but truth be told, the words — the  _ ma’am _ — are almost enough to make Lexa give in on their own.

Reaching for whatever is left of her self control and sinking her fingers on soft arms to keep herself from reaching in between them herself, Lexa searches for Clarke’s lips with her own. She finds them open, willing, ready. 

Their kiss starts deep and grows hungry in a split second, a sharp contrast to the tender, almost tentative one they shared only moments ago. Despite herself, her fingertips trace a path up Clarke’s arms, knowing the exact pressure to invite goosebumps, and she cradles her neck, angling her mouth to deepen the kiss even more.

The plane is sturdy on her back as Clarke presses her entire body against her, breasts pushing just enough to make her forget that she needs to breathe. No one can say Clarke doesn’t know her audience. Lexa is so caught up on the feel of her wife against her that she only realizes she moved her hands when they’re tracing the underside of Clarke’s breasts, her palms aching to feel their familiar weight.

It’s only when Clarke’s fingers press against her clit over her underwear, her thigh adding pressure behind it, that reality washes over her again. Lexa breaks the kiss and opens her eyes, gasping for air at the ache in between her legs that’s nowhere close to being relieved.

She’s on duty.

She’s flying a plane filled with hundreds of souls that need to get home safe and sound.

She’s a pilot, someone who needs to have their wits about them at all times, no matter how reliable the autopilot is, and her wife has her hand inside her pants.

“Clarke.” Her tone is more severe now, if lower than she’d have liked. It’d be dangerous enough to stop any flight attendant in their track, the warning in the single word delivering a punch on its own.

It only serves to spur Clarke on. She eases the pressure with her thigh to run her middle finger up and down and up again in a lazy tease.

To her credit, Clarke does look up to meet Lexa’s eyes. But there’s just a bored, vague curiosity on the surface, with mischief boiling under it. “Yes?” With her right hand, Clarke brushes a curl away from Lexa’s face, fake innocence coloring her features as her right hand finds a sinful rhythm.

Lexa spreads her legs and sinks down into the touch, earning an approving kiss to her jaw as Clarke adds more pressure. “What  _ are _ you doing?”

“Joining the mile high club with you,” Clarke answers as casually as if she were talking about the weather report sitting uselessly on Anya’s seat now.

Clarke brings her hand down from its resting place on Lexa’s neck and undoes the buttons of her uniform, revealing milky skin and a utilitarian bra. It’s hardly the see-through lacy lingerie she had bought for their anniversary celebration. Judging by the sharp intake of breath before Clarke kisses the sensitive skin, it might as well be.

Sucking her bottom lip in between her teeth and sinking her fingers into Clarke’s hair to keep her in place, Lexa leans her head back, pushes her chest forward as Clarke takes her teeth to it only to soothe it with her tongue a moment later. Her head hits the wall with a dull thud, and the sound that comes from the back of her throat could be either from pain or from pure desire.

“We can’t do this,” Lexa says, knowing fully well that the way her hips rock against Clarke’s fingers, aching for more pressure, more contact,  _ more _ , completely contradicts her words.

An unconvinced hum is all the answer she gets as Clarke slips her fingers inside her underwear and traces her folders with two digits. There’s no pressure on them, no real agenda to get it going any faster than it is right now, and Lexa feels heat crawling up her neck with every odd brush against her clit.

Lexa doesn’t care that her uniform will be wrinkled and that bite marks might be visible through the flimsy white fabric. She needs  _ more _ . Her hand still on Clarke’s breasts sneaks up, then under the neckline of her dress. The scoop collar is deep enough that Lexa can easily knead the soft skin, roll a stiff nipple in between her fingers.

It’s the muffled sigh against her skin that makes Lexa admit that this is a lost battle, any attempt to control herself nothing but feeble now. “What if someone comes in?”

“They’ll be proud of their pilot for multitasking,” Clarke says against her neck now, a hand pushing the cup of her bra down so she can mimic Lexa, swipe a thumb against the sensitive skin before pinching it with her index finger. “And for having a bombshell of a wife.”

The laughter that leaves Lexa barely makes it out of her lips before Clarke is kissing her, tongue searching hers at the same time her fingers finally,  _ finally _ press against her clit, without any teasing. Any resemblance of humor is drowned out by the desire building up in her core, and as long as Clarke keeps speeding up the circles she’s working on, Lexa can’t find it within her to care if she gets caught moaning instead of manning the aircraft.

It’s hard to be rational when Clarke has found the sweet spot between teasing and making Lexa come within seconds. It’s hard to care about her reputation, about anything at all when she can rock against her wife’s thigh, when she has to hide her face to muffle a guttural moan, when Clarke whispers into her ear how good she feels, how wet she is.

Bunching up the fabric of Clarke’s dress until the skirt is almost all around her waist, Lexa throws caution to the wind, at six thousand miles per hour, and palms her ass, pulling her closer. Clarke’s fingers slip and find their way to Lexa’s entrance with the sudden movement, but go back to her clit.

Her protest dies on her throat when Clarke braces herself against the wall and breaks the kiss, leans back just enough for Lexa to look at her as she changes rhythm, tightens the circles her digits are making, smiles at her like she knows exactly what that does to her, before kissing her again.

And she  _ does _ . 

If there’s anyone who knows the effect each touch has on Lexa, it’s Clarke.

They don’t have time to waste, and Lexa is intent on making the best of this — it has been on her bucket list since before she’s even started flight training, no matter how much she denies it, even to herself. There’s no time for taking turns, both because anyone could walk in on them and because the flight is a short one. Lexa slides her hand from her behind, across her hip bone, ready to sink her fingers into Clarke, feel the wetness she knows she’ll find.

Except she doesn’t. 

What she does find is a bulge, barely held in place by her underwear. Lexa breaks the kiss, surprise keeping her from swallowing the lump in her throat, desire making her mouth water. There’s a question in her eyes when she looks at Clarke, who slows her movements to an almost lazy rhythm again. All she finds in those blue eyes staring back at her is mischief.

Clarke’s hand falls from the wall and in between them, guiding Lexa’s own, encouraging her to venture further into the touch, to discover the exact toy she picked from their collection. “There’s no cock in this cockpit, so I brought my own.” 

The pun doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated by Lexa, who’s the one usually driving Clarke insane with her puns, but there’s something else in her mind. Lessons about plane security flash past her head, and she knows sex toys are allowed by the TSA but the question still slips her lips, “How did you get past security?”

Clarke chuckles and rolls her eyes, and Lexa can almost hear the teasing that’s coming. But instead, Clarke leans in and kisses, bites, licks a path up Lexa’s neck, her breath hot against her ear when she says, “I think your main worry should be finding a comfortable position to take it.”

It takes a moment for Lexa to recover from those words, her mouth opening and closing like she’s a goddamn goldfish. 

“We could go to the resting quarters,” her voice shakes at the suggestion combined with skilled fingers still working her up. Anya had been so eager to fight sleep anyway, she could come down to the flight deck for a while.

“No,” Clarke says, in the same stubborn tone she uses for their serious arguments. But the heaviness that surrounds the word could not be more different. She leans back, traces her bottom lip with her thumb, her pupils blown wide, “It’s our anniversary. I want to fuck you in the cockpit.”

Her breath catches in her throat, her lungs aching without air.

Lexa blinks and for a moment, a split second when her rational side almost takes over, she thinks about stopping. She should tell Clarke that as much as she appreciates the thought and care that went into it, she cannot do it, they cannot do it. It’s her duty to first and foremost make sure the plane lands safely.

But then Clarke slides her fingers inside her.

And she’s a goner.

Her knees buckle when Clarke curls her fingers before sliding them out, and she widens her stance for balance, to give Clarke more room to work with. When she’s filled again and rhythm is beginning to build, she brings Clarke to a kiss — deep and slow, the kind that holds promises impossible to be said out loud.

All too soon, Clarke slides her fingers out and circles her clit again, just light enough to be a goddamn tease without giving her any real relief. Lexa whines into the kiss, composure long gone, and rocks her hips, asking for more pressure that Clarke seems willing to give her.

It’s Clarke who breaks the kiss, and Lexa follows her lips with her before leaning back against the wall. She watches her wife looking around the cockpit, maybe trying to find somewhere more comfortable, but all of her focus goes to the lightest of touches to her core.

Clarke presses harder against Lexa’s clit, giving her relief from the ache deep within her, only to take it out a moment later. She licks her fingers clean as her looks in between both seats. The soft, needy sigh that leaves her lips along with a  _ pop _ when she lets go of her fingers has Lexa grinding against the thigh still pressed against her core, does away with any reservations Lexa might still have.

“Which one is your seat?”

“ _ Clarke _ .” There’s a warning in her voice, washed down by the desire that threatens to overwhelm her. But her wife just holds her eyes for a brief moment, weighing her tone, before stepping away altogether. Lexa buckles against nothing now, and fights a pout before waving a hand in defeat, “The one on the right.”

Walking the almost non-existent distance to the seat, Clarke adjusts both its inclination and distance from the control panel. It goes far back enough that they wouldn’t accidentally hit anything. Lexa steps towards the Captain seat and looks at the major indicators and gauges, making sure everything is as it should be despite her pants being open and her thighs sticky with her wetness.

Fuel is burning at the expected rate, the autopilot is doing its job, they’re en route as planned, no clouds too grey to be worried about— “Babe, take off your pants, please?”

Clarke interrupts her line of thought, those words sounding as casual as if she’d just asked for Lexa to unload the dishwasher.

It brings back some sense into Lexa.

It’d be one thing to have a quickie in the cramped bathroom and get caught by a flight attendant with her wife’s hand inside her pants. It’s something else entirely to be naked from the waist down  _ in the cockpit _ she’s supposed to be piloting.

Her jaw shifts as she weighs the consequences against the thrill. It’s an existing thought, to experience for herself all the amazing things she’s heard about having sex at thirty seven thousand feet. But when her hands go to her pants, she’s still not sure she wants to zip it up or kick then out.

“I’ve talked to the cabin crew beforehand. I’ve told them it’s our anniversary and I had a surprise for you. They’re not coming in here, no one is coming in here for the next half an hour at least,” Clarke says, again in a painfully casual tone, as she unfolds the blanket Lexa carries with her to every flight and spreads it over her seat, “They all know you can fly this thing with your eyes closed. We have this time just to ourselves.”

The thought of her cabin crew knowing she’s getting railed by her wife in the cockpit is enough to make all her blood leave her limbs and find home on her cheeks.

“Do they know we’re about to have sex?” Lexa asks, her voice low as if the entire plane had their ears pressed to the door. She’s worked too hard to earn the respect of her crew for it to be dismantled like that.

There’s a fight building in her chest, but Clarke is quick to answer. “ _ God _ , no. I have chocolates and flowers right there,” Clarke points to the extra chair near the door, occupied by a slim golden-foiled box and a bouquet made out of jasmine and roses, “At most, they think we’re being sap and kissing a little.”

She closes her eyes as relief rushes through her, and it takes her a few deep breaths to wipe images of her crew gossiping about her. When she opens her eyes, she finds Clarke looking at her, all urgency gone from her features. Lexa feels her thumb brushing gently against the swell of her stomach, bringing her peace again.

Her wife knows her, in and out. Clarke knows how important this is to her, how much she has to lose. And of course she took care of everything. 

Lexa nods and pulls her pants down, underwear and shoes going with it, as Clarke shimmies out of her own underwear, the concealed bulge springing to life in all its purple and silver glory. Before she has time to take it in, to reach for it at all, Clarke is making herself comfortable on the seat Lexa was commanding the plane from just minutes ago.

Careful not to bump any toggles or switches, Clarke leans back, beckoning her to join her.

Lexa side steps the throttle in between the seats, straddling Clarke’s legs. The dildo rests against her inner thigh, and her walls clench in anticipation. “This goes against so many protocols, Clarke.” Her words are a last hail Mary to convince herself to button her shirt back up and fly this plane home, where it’s more appropriate to ride wife.

It doesn’t work.

With her hands resting on each side of Clarke’s head, Lexa leans in for a kiss. The movement makes the shaft rise and press against her clit, and she sighs into the kiss, deepens it as her hips tilt forward, any pressure now being too much and not nearly enough all the same. Clarke’s palms travel from her waist to her ass, stopping her sharp and short movements, her teeth grazing Lexa’s bottom lip before breaking the kiss.

“We can stop, if you want,” Clarke presses a kiss to her collarbone, looks back at her. 

And Lexa should want that. She should press a final kiss to Clarke’s lips and stop it. But she can feel her wetness dripping down her thigh, the dildo pressed against her folds catching some of it, and fuck,  _ fuck _ , she does not want to stop.

“Touch me.”

The words, whispered against blonde hair, elicit a smile against her neck. Before Lexa can pull Clarke into a kiss, she feels her hand trace a light path down her hip bone, over her mount and Lexa spreads her legs a little more to welcome the touch. The pad of Clarke’s thumb finds her clit and—  _ Jesus _ .

Without the constraints of polyester, it feels better, it feels more sordid, more forbidden.

Lexa muffles a moan on Clarke’s shoulder, rocking against the touch, her nails digging into the sheepskin seat covers. The pressure is not enough to make her come, it’s not nearly fucking enough to do anything other than drive her half insane. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the smallest portion that isn’t focused on the tight circles growing faster only to slow down a moment later, Lexa notices Clarke snapping the last few buttons of her shirt open, feels her bra pushed down, barely makes sense of the words whispered in her ear —  _ I missed you so much, you feel so good, you’re so wet for me. _

God, she is wet. Lexa is for goddamn wet and so ready for more. She pulls back just enough to search for Clarke lips with hers, bring her into a sloppy and hungry kiss, more teeth than tongue, her hips buckling against the touch that’s growing softer and softer. “Babe. I need—“

Lexa should have known that Clarke wouldn’t go easy on her, and her fears are confirmed when lips stretch into a smile under hers. 

Those half whispered, barely coherent words are usually enough for her to get what she wants. But all it gets her is a soft brush against her clit before Clarke leans back, letting go completely, driving her half insane.

“What do you need?”

“You know what,” Lexa whines, whatever warning she wanted her voice to hold lost in the air when Clarke licks a path down her collarbone, then blows on the wet skin. It travels straight to her core. 

She’s forgotten all about someone walking in, catching her naked and needy, how unprofessional all of this is. All she wants is Clarke.

“I do know what.” Clarke drags her wet fingers up Lexa’s mound and towards her waist, capturing her nipple in between her lips. She swirls her tongue around it and lets go when Lexa shivers under her touch, “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

They’ve played this game before, the teasing, the working her up until she cracks. It’s a game that draws out for longer than they have. Lexa doesn’t wait for Clarke to coax it out of it.

“I need you to fuck me,” Lexa hears the words leaving her lips, and if the altitude makes her bolder, neither of them is complaining, “I want to ride your strap until I come for you.”

Wrapping an arm around her waist and leaning back for them to lock eyes, Clarke adjusts the dildo until it’s on Lexa’s entrance, guides her down. It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open and fixed on Clarke’s as she takes it in, inch by inch.

It takes her a moment to adjust to the stretch once she sinks onto it with nothing short of abandon, her muscles contracting around it already. But they both pause, lean into a kiss — something more mellow than before, languid and quiet. Fingertips running up and down her back bring goosebumps to life, the tilt of Clarke’s head letting the kiss deepen on its own accord.

This moment is just theirs. 

Then Clarke grabs her ass, squeezes a handful of it, and pulls her forward. They don’t have time to waste.

Lexa moves forward and up, then down again until the shaft is right where she wants it. She rocks against it for a moment, until Clarke’s hips tilt up to meet hers, before sliding almost all the way out. Only to sink onto it in one fluid motion.

It’s easy to build up a rhythm with Clarke’s hands on her hips, tongue running over any expanse of exposed skin, sighs muffled into her breasts as she muffles her own moans into soft blonde hair. One hand presses down on her lower stomach. It’s almost too much for her, the tightness it brings. Her muscles contract in sync. Lexa clutches Clarke’s shoulder for balance as she moves, throws her head back, her hooded eyes unfocused—

There’s a light. 

A blinking light that shouldn’t be blinking.

Lexa stops moving. She sinks back down, sits on Clarke’s thighs as she blinks to try and do away with the fog curling up her spine. “Wait, babe. One second,” her voice hitches as the shaft hits a particular spot, and she grits her teeth as she turns half around to check what the problem is.

It takes her a few deep breaths to make sense of why that particular light is blinking. Clarke doesn’t tease her, doesn’t trace her fingers over sensitive skin — she just holds her in place, her hands on her back so she doesn’t lean back too far. If it’s possible, that simple gesture makes her love her wife even more.

Lexa changes a few toggles, reaching out for the weather forecast, before adjusting their height. It’s only a second before the blinking light steadies and goes out. Autopilot should have been able to fix it, the white light hardly a warning bell, and it probably would have, given a few extra minutes. It’s still good to see it gone.

With another cursory look across the panel and checking the main gauges again, Lexa turns around to face Clarke again, “All good now.”

The words barely leave her lips before Clarke kisses her shoulder, teeth scraping the skin less than gently, bringing her back to the moment. Hands move on her body, one pressing against her lower back, another pressing against her stomach again. The new position leaves Clarke free to press her thumb on her clit, spread her wetness over it, move in tight circles.

Her eyes roll back and a moan leaves her throat unconstrained, filling the cockpit. Pleasure shivers its way up her back, down her legs, urging her to move, to match the rhythm of her thrusts with Clarke’s touch.

The vibrations from the plane, an ordinary thing that Lexa barely notices anymore, seems to curl up around her spine, tighten the coil in her stomach and oh—  _ oh _ , she understands the appeal now. She’d give up her entire reputation for the thrill of being half naked with her wife inside the cockpit.

Clarke bites the underside of her jaw, licking it to soothe the skin and Lexa is so far gone she can’t find it within herself to care if she shows up with a hickey mid-flight. The pressure building tighter and tighter, and Lexa barely manages to stay upright, doesn’t make sense of the words Clarke is whispering to her. The hot breath in her ear, the fast circles on her clit, the feel of her wife deep within her—

“Clarke, I’m—  _ fuck _ ,” Lexa sinks her nails into the seat, using it as leverage to ride faster, to push herself over the edge, barely understanding Clarke’s pleas for her to come.

Something snaps within her and her hips buckle, her thighs tighten around Clarke’s and oh,  _ oh.  _

Pleasure washes over her in waves that match Clarke’s touch on her, each swipe of her thumb another shiver rippling through her body.

Lexa buries her head on the crook of Clarke’s neck, muffling the sounds coming out of her, giving them a fighting chance against being caught. Her high doesn’t end for a moment, and Clarke catches her on the other side, peppering small kisses all over her neck and chest, whispering soft, praising words,

“Happy anniversary, Captain,” Clarke says, her words caught in a laugh, falling against her flushed and sweaty skin. She tucks a few curls behind her ear, swipe all her hair over to one side, blows cool air on her neck.

The contrast makes Lexa shiver, her muscles still contracting against the dildo, her high still making it difficult to breathe all that well. But she leans back, just enough to find her wife’s matching smile, “Happy anniversary, my love.” 

Stealing one more moment, Lexa meets Clarke in a kiss, softly and sweetly like she meant to in the first place, when she thought a hello was all she was getting.

It’s Clarke who starts pulling Lexa’s image as a respectable pilot back in place — adjusting her bra until it’s back in place, buttoning her shirt again, all while still buried within her.

Between soft kisses that belong to low lights and soft pillows, not the cockpit of an airplane, Lexa takes a look at her watch as she lets the shaft slide out of her, a soft whimper along with it at the loss. They’ve got time — not a ton, but more than enough.

Rocking against Clarke’s thigh, her sensitive clit still shooting up weaker waves of pleasure to her nerve endings, Lexa reaches in between them, intent on finding enough room under the tight fit of the strap to touch her. She has no doubt she’ll find Clarke as wet as she is, close to coming with the barely there pressure of her riding her, but a hand on her wrist stops her.

“As much fun as that was, I don’t think we can lean this seat far back enough for you to go down on me,” Clarke says in a tone too sweet to match her words, kissing Lexa’s palm before coaxing her out of her lap.

By the time Lexa’s legs have stopped shaking enough to be able to support her, Clarke is already out of her seat, with her underwear back on and concealing the strap-on that made Lexa see stars that aren’t in the night sky only a few minutes ago. Lexa only just manages to slide back into her pants without falling, and it’s Clarke who tucks her shirt into the waistband.

“Call whoever the other pilot is and tell them you’re going to the sleeping quarters for the rest of the flight,” Clarke says, pressing a kiss to Lexa’s cheek before reaching for the blanket and folding it.

Anya will give her hell for months, but Lexa doesn’t think twice before reaching for the speaker to call her back on deck.


End file.
